


The Scholar and the Child

by Rivana



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-10
Updated: 2011-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:32:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rivana/pseuds/Rivana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Hunter walks into a bookstore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scholar and the Child

**Author's Note:**

> Ignores timelines.

He first meets the child at Shakespeare & Co.

“Need a book,” he says. “The Watcher kind.”

Methos surreptitiously checks the young man’s wrists; they’re hidden under his long sleeves, and are those wrist guards? Drats.

“The Watcher kind?” he asks, stalling for time.

Hazel eyes meet hazel eyes. No, that’s not right; one eye is more green than hazel. Methos flexes his quickening, takes a whiff of the boy. Smells like Africa, feels like magic. The stranger meanwhile says nothing, does nothing, and just waits.

“Right,” Methos says, coming to a decision. “That’s an after-hours conversation.”

“I get that,” the child says, all wide eyes and earnest expression. Methos blinks in consternation at the quick change in demeanour.

“It’s just, it’s spring, you know?” the boy continues.

Methos narrows his eyes. He does not enjoy feeling as if he is missing half of the conversation. And it seems like the boy is using code, but it is not any Watcher code Methos is familiar with, in either organization.

“Tis the season to be slaying?” the child tries, flashing a please-get-this smile.

It is definitely some sort of code, but maybe it’s more something for the active Watchers. Though last Methos heard Watchers weren’t active with much of anything except finding their girls and training them.

“It usually is,” he settles on, trying to convey that --yes, he really is in the know, but no --he still has no idea what type of secret message the boy is trying to convey.

“Oh, yeah,” the boy laughs. “I guess it is.” He looks around the very empty bookstore, then leans forward, almost ending up nose to nose with Methos. Something flashes in that green eye, something like predatory instinct, but it’s quickly reined in. Methos does nothing more than blink in a bewildered manner. He knew how to act bewildered since before there was a word for it after all. Still, the boy is unsettling. A true wild child. Could this really be a Watcher? Certainly not unless the Watcher’s Council has changed a whole hell of a lot since Methos checked up on them last. Which means this boy is something else.

“It’s Apocalypse season,” the not-Watcher whispers.

“Springtime is Apocalypse season?” Methos asks, not having to feign his bewilderment this time. Would definitely be a good idea to check in with the slayer part of the Watchers, and soon. It’s a good thing the two sides split centuries ago, that should help him keep his cover with the immortal branch.

The boy leans back and bounces on the balls of his feet.

“Exactly,” he says, grinning.

“And I take it the season is reaching its peak any day now?” Methos almost winces at the clumsy delivery. He used to be better at these things.

“Got it in one,” the boy says, still bouncing, but now looking a bit more serious again.

Methos sighs.

“Give me a minute,” he says and passes the boy. Turning his back on the stranger sends a slight warning down his spine. Like the kind he gets when he turns his back on MacLeod, either of the Macleod’s. He knows he just turned his back on a dangerous predator. He also knows it is a noble beast that only attacks when provoked. Still, Methos is used to living dangerously, used to striding tall amongst dangerous beasts. He is, after all, the most dangerous of them all.

He checks the store to make sure no overzealous student has hid in any of its nooks and crannies. Then he walks to the door and locks it, flipping the Closed-sign as he does. When he turns back to his guest the boy is browsing the more obscure literature behind the counter; the books in Latin, Greek, even Sumerian. None of the fun stuff though. That’s down in the basement. Which is where they’re going.

And Methos is not going to ask if the child can read the languages. It’s clear from the assessing eyes and the questing finger tracing some of the spines that the boy is familiar with some of the words if nothing else. He sounds them out, under his breath, even going so far as taking one of the books out to start reading. Though not the oldest manuscript, just an 18th century one, and he handles the book with extreme care.

At least he seems to know his way around books, though he does not look the usual type, and isn’t a Watcher. A Hunter then. Unusual for a Hunter to know about Watchers though. Maybe this one has a talkative friend somewhere. Methos narrows his eyes in contemplation. Bears thinking about. He studies the boy for a few minutes before walking toward him, making sure to announce his presence with loud footfalls. It’s never a good idea to startle a Hunter.

The boy looks back as Methos nears and flashes him a sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” he says, closing the book. “Been a while since I visited a proper bookshop, outbacks of Africa aren’t exactly ripe with them.”

“Only just back, then?” Methos queries politely.

The boy checks his watch.

“About nine hours now,” he says.

Methos winces. Someone is working this child to the ground, that’s for sure. Though it’s strange for a Hunter to have employers. Maybe he’s mixed in with the Watchers somehow; doing freelance work. Methos wants to ask, but that’s not how the game is played.

“We’ll head to the basement,” he says. “That’s where the good stuff is. What are you looking for anyway? Might not even be in here.”

“Breaching the Worlds,” the boy says, pronouncing the Sumerian atrociously, but still well enough to be understood. Considering no one speaks ancient Sumerian nowadays, except for one or two immortals of course, and some demons, it was a very good try. Curiouser and curiouser. It’s an obscure text to be sure. And a dangerous one.

“What do you need it for?” Methos asks as they head down the stairs. It’s always a bit iffy negotiating who walks first in these situations, but Methos gestures politely for the boy to precede him. If anyone is going to take risks here it is not going to be Methos. He lets the boy take several steps before he follows at a sedate pace.

“Gotta get a Key back,” the boy says with slight emphasis on the k in key, as if he means something more than what he’s saying.

“The Key?” Methos asks, making sure to put the same emphasis on the word.

“You know about it?” the boy asks, looking back, startled. Methos does not want this wild child startled, especially not in his basement. Rampaging beasts can make such a mess.

“I know a lot of things,” Methos says. “That’s why you came here after all.” There, let the boy make of that what he will.

Apparently it’s a good answer as their journey continues uninterrupted. The boy stops at the bottom of the stairs while Methos walks past him to light the farthest part of the cellar. He keeps on walking, this time taking the lead. No need to be rude.

“It’s in my private collection,” he tells the boy, as he leads him to the hidden door at the far end of the cellar. “Some things are just too dangerous to leave lying around.”

“Amen to that,” the boy mutters. It seems to be a private matter, so Methos refrains from commenting. They step through the door and he waves the boy to take a seat by the writing desk while he shifts some scrolls and tries to remember where he put that particular Apocalypse-level-of-dangerous texts. The child seats himself obediently, but looks around with open curiosity.

“You have a larger personal library than Giles,” he says. The name explains a lot. Rupert Giles watched over the active slayer last time Methos checked.

“Someone has to keep these things safe,” he says, carefully moving an 11th century thesis on alchemy out of the way.

“You know, the Watcher’s Council has changed,” the child says. “It’s not like it was before. We’re not like they were before.”

Ah, yes, the bomb at the Watcher Council headquarters. Could hardly have happened to a more charming secret society.

“That’s nice,” Methos murmurs, keeping it neutral. “Life is change.”

The child goes quiet after that and just sits in his chair, watching the books, probably reading whatever titles he can catch a glimpse of, which shouldn’t be too many thankfully. Though with that one inhuman eye he’s got, who knows.

“There,” Methos exclaims, finally getting his hands on the book in question. It’s a rewrite many times over, but it’s old enough that some of the leather is still left on his fingers when he hands the text over to his guest. He really should get around to copying that one.

“Try to return it,” he says. “It needs to be re-copied.”

“I’ll do my best,” says the boy. “But if it’s the world or the book….” He trails off.

“Just try,” Methos says and waves off the excuse. “And I don’t want it ending up in Rupert’s library, or the Council’s. I’m trusting you with this.” He levels a stare at the boy.

The boy rises from his chair and nods.

“You have my word,” he says, offering his hand.

Methos is of half a mind to make a blood oath of it, but then he would have to either explain his quickening or work to suppress it. The former was inconvenient and the latter was downright dangerous as it would leave him vulnerable for maybe a day. He only used that little trick when he absolutely had to.

“As is sworn, so is bound,” he says, taking the child’s hand, working his quickening to shoot the tiniest spark into it. The boy only startles the slightest bit before giving Methos’ hand a firm squeeze and then letting go.

“Not much with the trusting, are you?” he asks, seeming more amused than offended.

“Sure I am,” Methos says with a smile. “I haven’t even asked you your name.”

The boy offers a grin in return.

“It’s Xander,” he says.

Methos gestures toward the door.

“Take care of my book, Xander,” he says. “But take care of yourself too. I look forward to meeting you again.”

The boy gives him a curious look, but precedes him through the door. They walk in silence all the way back up to the store part of the building.

“Thank you for this,” the boy, Xander, says.

“I think I should be the one thanking you,” Methos says and makes a split-second decision.

He grabs a note and a pencil from the counter and scribbles down his cell-phone number.

“In case you need anything,” he says and hands the note over. The boy takes it, raising a surprised eyebrow as he does. Then he hunts down a business card, somehow managing to look pristine even though he must have had it with him since long before coming to Paris. When Methos touches it he understands why. There’s a slight magic hum to it.

“Magical business cards?” he asks, despite himself.

Xander grins sheepishly.

“It was the only way they were going to survive the lifestyle,” he says and shrugs. Methos believes him. Being an active Hunter is a dangerous and often messy job. Being a Hunter and working in Africa for any stretch of time would really be hell on the wardrobe let alone any shiny, white paper you were optimistic enough to bring along. Methos is not sure why he does it, but he adds a serious offer to this strange wild child.

“That number will always work,” he says, “one way or another.”

“I have my own tricks,” he adds when Xander gives him a confused look. The Hunter nods thoughtfully.

“Good to know,” he says.

“And…” Methos hesitates, but something tells him that this wild child, this Hunter, is one of the important ones. “When I say anything, I mean it. When all seems darkest, when all hope seems lost, when the world hangs on by a thread, or even when things have already gone to hell, maybe even literally--call me. I will help you then.”

The boy nods seriously, apparently taking him at his word. He does not return the offer, but Methos is pretty sure that’s because it was already implied. The child is one of those people, after all; one of the good ones.

“Thank you, Adam,” Xander says.

Methos nods back, and then makes another decision.

“When you really have need of me,” he says, “call me Methos. But tell no one else.”

The child, of course, has no idea of the significance of that name, but he seems to get the magnitude of the offer, if not the particulars.

“Methos,” he says. “Thank you.” He steps backwards through the now open door. “I’ll see you around,” he promises, and then he turns, and walks away.

~oOo~

Methos feels the trembling in reality two days later.

~oOo~

Three weeks later the book is returned in a diplomatic pouch, a handwritten note accompanying it.

“That did the trick,” it says and it’s signed “Xander”.

Methos burns the note and keeps the pouch. Then he sets to work painstakingly copying every last word and scribble from the text into one of his own journals. He buys for durability, after all. And something tells him this will not be the last time the book will be needed. Maybe then he’ll see the boy again.


End file.
